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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24784072">Hay Fever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world'>a_static_world</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Allergies, But Oh Wow are They Dramatic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier Loves His Boys, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mentioned Eskel (The Witcher), Mentioned Lambert (The Witcher), Mentioned Vesemir (The Witcher), Not really though, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, fluffy fluff, just him being dramatic, witchers are babies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:30:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24784072</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every spring, without fail, Jaskier would find Geralt. And, every spring, without fail, hay fever would find Jaskier. Months of incurable itchy eyes, scratchy throat, and a constant snot-faucet dripping down the back of his throat. Wonderful times all around, really.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>199</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hay Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    Every spring, without fail, Jaskier would find Geralt. And, every spring, without fail, hay fever would find Jaskier. Months of incurable itchy eyes, scratchy throat, and a constant snot-faucet dripping down the back of his throat. It caused him only minor inconvenience, but it made singing a real pain in the ass. Monsters came out in droves in the springtime, however, which lessened the need for his singing. Coin flowed nearly as freely as his fucking nose, Melitele save him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>The snot, headache, et cetera, of course, didn’t stop him from on-the-fly composing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Legend has it that the moss grows </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span> the north side of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>trees</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Jaskier,” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier, of course, dutifully ignored the witcher, dodging the swipe at his head and hacking up a positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>repulsive</span>
  </em>
  <span> amount of phlegm before continuing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Legend has it when the rains come </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span> all the worms come out to </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What about that, Geralt? D’you think worms breathe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Geralt didn’t say anything, that time; he merely continued on through the dense forest, following a barely-there path Jaskier’s watery eyes strained to see. He soldiered on, valiant in the face of his afflictions, a poet regardless of what befell him. This forest seemed particularly aggravating, dust and tree-whatever so thick in the air that the sunbeam fell in fat shafts, catching on every little speck. The air smelled heavy, rich with loam and new vegetation. Well, what little air Jaskier could smell anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    It would be beautiful if it didn’t make Jaskier want to claw his own fucking eyes out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He switched tack, plucking a new tune and searching for rhymes as he trundled along.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “And you’d never believe her, the girl with hay-fever, sniffling up a storm. She’d hack and groan, work on her moans, beg for a scrap of-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>His musings were interrupted by what sounded like a sneeze in Geralt’s general direction, which was strange on account of the fact that Witchers didn’t get sick. He’d been told, time and again, that witchers </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>fall ill. He’d heard it deep in Kaer Morhen, Eskel and Lambert swanning about when he had the flu (prats). He’d drawn it from the lips of whores and townspeople, the famed virility and immunity of the mutants traveling faster than his songs (the, ah, libido, he was well acquainted with). Geralt himself once said witchers didn’t retire, they merely slowed and were killed. Dramatic bullshit, as always; honestly, Jaskier didn’t know how he’d ended up being painted as the flamboyant one. Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>regularly </span>
  </em>
  <span>spewed such gems as </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want anyone needing me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here to drink alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did your mother fuck a snowman</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kchew</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Mmmm, that one counted. Full sneeze (far more adorable and quiet than Jaskier would’ve expected) that most definitely came from Geralt and not Roach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Feeling alright, darling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mhm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It could be Jaskier’s imagination, but Geralt sounded decidedly more stuffed up than usual. He prided himself on knowing all of his paramour’s various </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmm</span>
  </em>
  <span>s, ranging from pleased (after a bath, or sex, or eating), upset (when anyone threatened Jaskier), disgusted (when covered in various guts), and a plethora of others, lovingly noted down over the years. So yeah, he fucking knew when a grunt sounded off. He also knew when not to push, and by the way Geralt’s shoulders had begun their journey towards his ears, this was one of those times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>But oh, wait until they made it to whatever shithole they were headed towards. Hopefully it had an apothecary; while hay fever couldn’t exactly be cured, apple-vinegar and nettle tea did wonders for the symptoms. When worse came to worse, a mage had once shown him a spot behind his jaw that cleared all the pressure from his head. Steam, too, if one could find it. Anything to clear out his fucking nose, honestly. He shot a quick prayer to Melitele. What could it hurt? </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll never take breathing for granted again, I swear</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He’d best be careful, though. Witchers got testy when they were pretending to be fine, and it’d be a miracle if Geralt even let him anywhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>close </span>
  </em>
  <span>to his head. Many a companion had tried; few had returned to try again. Eskel’d nearly bitten a mage, once, and the damage control Jaskier had to do...let’s just say there was a period of very little work for Geralt. Volatile things, his boys. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He loved them, still, fangs and all. However, he could now (alarmingly) hear Geralt sniffling ahead of him, and a vague memory of Vesemir saying witchers were only </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> susceptible to disease stirred in a corner of his brain. The other corners were occupied with how quickly they could reach this next village, because having a sick witcher camping in the middle of an unknown forest was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking idea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>The taste of copper flooded his tongue, metallic and sharp. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’d worry-bitten through his lip without realizing, and he pressed his thumb against the small hurt to stem the bleeding. Strangely, Geralt hadn’t even turned his head, and the man normally overreacted to an incredible degree anytime he scented blood on, near, or around Jaskier. If Geralt couldn’t even smell that, then this may be a bigger issue than he’d had thought. He made the executive decision not to bring it up; take away one of a witcher’s senses and they tended to flounder. Another memory surfaced, this time of Lambert being dared to find his way around Kaer Morhen deaf and blind and failing </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Thankfully, they made it to the village unscathed, Geralt stubbornly pretending to have all his wits about him (he had none) and Jaskier pointedly saying nothing (a delicate art, saying something while saying nothing). The air between them hummed, tight and tense like an over-stretched lute string, and the innkeeper needed little haggling before lowering the price of their room to something reasonable. Jaskier barely had to turn on his charms (not that he could easily muster them, what with a Continent’s worth of crust in his eyes). He all but shoved Geralt down the hall and into the room, pressing a firm hand directly in between his shoulder blades. It served as a testament to how awful Geralt felt that he let him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Okay, my lovely big-bad-witcher. Want to tell me what the fuck is up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“It’s nothing, Jaskier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mmmm so ‘nothing’ makes you sound like Lambert’s holding your nose closed, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Drop it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Your growl doesn’t scare me, dear. Lie down, I’ll be back in a tick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>The innkeep was nice enough to provide a kettle and a bucket of water, and Jaskier had some mint oil in his pack. Some of the southern cities had these rooms full of hot steam, something about sweating the disease out. Jaskier loved them, and frequented them as often as they were in the region. He figured he could do something similar, but just...put Geralt’s head over a steaming bucket instead of his whole body. Though the thought of Geralt naked and sweating in a hot, sweet-smelling room...</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Focus up, Pankratz</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He nudged the door open with a hip, filling the kettle and settling it over the fire Geralt had started. The man in question had abandoned any semblance of toughness (along with his shirt), and gently wheezed as Jaskier puttered around, pulling vials of oil and various salts from his pack. He’d long ago switched out all scents for those Geralt liked- tolerated, at the very least- and settled on a mix of lavender and peppermint to soothe his head and clear out his nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Jaskier, I think I may be dying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier rolled his eyes, pouring the now-boiling water over the salts and herbs he’d placed into the bucket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“You’re not dying, idiot, I’d never let you. Now, get over here, and bring your shirt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It wasn’t often he got to take care of his witcher, and Jaskier reveled in it. Geralt did as he asked, allowing Jaskier to push and pull at him until he knelt before the steaming bucket. Jaskier arranged the shirt over his head, ensuring there were no gaps, and tapped lightly around where Geralt’s jaw should be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Now breathe in, darling. Tell me if it’s too strong, and I’ll make it over. This should help with the, ah, dying feeling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It gave Jaskier no small amount of satisfaction to watch Geralt’s shoulders physically relax, hands uncurling on his thighs. His own head felt fit to bursting, but the kettle wasn’t empty, and he could take his turn after Geralt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>To love is to share</span>
  </em>
  <span>, someone had once told him, and, well, yeah. To love, in his mind, is to share and be content sharing. It’s helping Geralt out first, not in repayment, not for good-boyfriend points, but because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Geralt emerged fifteen minutes later, beet-red and breathing easier than he had all day. Jaskier grinned, the pain in his head all but forgotten as the man pressed fire-hot lips to his forehead, his jaw, eventually moving to capture his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“You’re hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier poked his tongue out, searching his lip for the place he’d bitten earlier. He’d forgotten, honestly, what with all the happenings and revelations and witcher-snot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“It’s nothing, Mr. Dramatic. Bit it worrying about you, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Geralt snorted, kissing him again. Jaskier shivered as the other man’s tongue traced over the bite, melting into the witcher completely. He knew his own worth, of course, but gods </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> did he love doing things for Geralt. The man had spent too damn long thinking he was unlovable, unworthy of small kindnesses. The first time Jaskier washed his hair for him, he’d been in a state of total shock the whole time, and it just about cleaved Jaskier’s heart in two. Since then he’d been all but conditioning the witcher to accept whatever inane bullshit he threw at him. Flowers woven into his hair, pastries, lullabies, soothing him through nightmares without pity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>One thing led to another, of course, and Geralt began to reciprocate in his own way. A ring left on Jaskier’s bedside table, a grunted compliment after he played a new song. Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> things led to </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> things; namely sexy things, along with the privilege of riding Roach every once in a while. Did they ever explicitly discuss whatever they had? No, of course not. It simply wasn’t how they worked. Had Jaskier begun accompanying Geralt to Kaer Morhen more often than not? Yes. And it was nobody’s business except their own, try as Eskel and Lambert might to catch them in the act. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier broke away from the kiss, breathing much heavier than he normally would due to his </span>
  <em>
    <span>restricted fucking airways</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Mother Nature must really hate him, Maiden above. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“My turn for the steam bucket. Shove some mint up your nose if the can’t-breathe feeling comes back, I’ll see you in a few.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Mmmm, yeah, this is the shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Let that hot hot water open his nose right up, get all of that disgusting goo out for about ten minutes before it all comes back. Sadly, the water quickly turned from deliciously warm to tepid and ineffective, and Jaskier pulled his head out from under Geralt’s shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing out the curls that had fuzzed out in the humid air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Sexy.” Geralt snorted, dislodging several mint leaves in the process.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Oh, sod off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier curled up next to the witcher, rubbing his sweaty five-o’clock shadow on the other man’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mmm, now we can sleep all headache-free.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Speak for yourself, mine keeps coming and going.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Jaskier propped himself on his elbows, brow wrinkling as he scanned Geralt for any signs of something more than hay fever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Oh, there it is again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>prick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>But Geralt was laughing, and honestly, who was Jaskier to deny him? It had, in all honesty, been maybe the first actual joke Geralt had ever made in his presence. So, milestones. He merely settled his head on the witcher’s chest, closing his eyes and focusing on the slow rhythm of his heart. There would be plenty of time to think of a quip to get Geralt back; for now, they could both breathe, and that’s all Jaskier could ask for, really. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a ha haaaa it's far too late right now<br/>this is. barely edited. but <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts">oddconstellation</a> loves me anyway so<br/>as always come find me on the <a href="https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/">tumblies</a>, I really do love talking to you guys!<br/>also give The Moss by cosmo sheldrake a listen- it's super funky and I love it a lot</p></blockquote></div></div>
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